


Firth and Forests

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Banter, But it’s not who you think!, Crack, Frottage, Frottage in the great outdoors, Gratuitous descriptions of forests, Gruff insults as foreplay, He puts those big hands to good use, In more ways than one, Julian gets laddy, M/M, Oh yes, Outdoor Sex, Someone’s clothing takes a beating in this one, Wet Boys, Wet Darcy, Wet Julian, specifically, this is normal, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28015380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: Julian’s hungover and he just wants a nap, but Noel has other plans. “Let’s watch P&P95 instead because Firth’s all curly-haired and broad-shouldered” plans. Plans that lead Julian to a forest and a meeting with an allegedly well fit Firth as Darcy.Julian will be the judge of that.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Other(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 4
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	Firth and Forests

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Terrantalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/gifts).



> For Terrantalen, whose tags a million years ago mentioned P&P95 as a comfort show, and who said, “Yeah, you should definitely watch it.” You’ve never steered me wrong, darling. Here’s to the forests and the outdoor sex that’s about to happen, here’s to the wet boys, and here’s to friendship!

It’s a cold, damp, rainy afternoon. Julian pulls the blanket up further over his chest and balances his now-cold cup of tea on the arm of the sofa. He’s nursing last night’s hangover, Noel curled into his side like a dozing koala. 

Julian would have been satisfied to sit there nauseous and quiet with his tea after they’d both flopped down in agony, but Noel wanted a distraction from his headache. In Julian’s opinion, there was nothing on the screen worth keeping the telly on for. Noel had thought otherwise. 

Noel had channel flipped past footy ( _too loud, too fast, think it’s making me dizzier, Ju’n_ ) and the weather ( _well boring, rain for ages_ ) and then stopped on a pastoral scene with a young woman traveling in some type of horse-drawn cart. 

Noel had sighed. He crawled back to the sofa, put his head in Julian’s lap, and dropped his eyes shut the second Julian started rubbing circles into his temple. 

Julian would have kept it up, too, would’ve closed his eyes and fallen asleep right that instant if he knew what he was going to get himself into, keeping them open.

“What’s this, then?” Julian says, nodding at the telly screen and trying to ignore the ice pick chipping away behind his right eye. Seems like an awful lot of dialogue, but he can tune that out. At least the leaves and the scenery are peaceful and nice. 

“It’s that thing, with the guy,” Noel responds, burrowing his face into Julian’s stomach.

“Great,” Julian says. “I think I saw him in that other thing. Not this thing, though. Or maybe it was that other guy in the other, _other_ thing.” He shifts and shakes Noel’s shoulder. “Are you going to watch it?”

“I am watching,” Noel says. His eyes are sparkling when he opens them. Julian’s not sure how he does it, as hungover as they both are, but there’s no doubt, they’re sparkling. 

“I’m waiting for Colin Firth. All the girls think he’s well fit. ‘Ooo, Mr. Darcy!’ and that rubbish. He’s got curls and broad shoulders and he’s all surly and grumpy,” Noel yawns.

“Doesn’t sound like he’s all that,” Julian returns.

“Shhh. Tell me when he’s on the screen.” Noel sits up and tucks himself into Julian’s neck. 

Noel’s been dozing since, and his head’s gotten heavier on Julian’s shoulder. He must be nearly asleep, but he grumbles every time Julian moves to reposition or tries to change the channel. “’M watchin’ that,” he slurs into Julian’s neck, his eyes closed and facing the complete opposite direction of the screen.

Julian gives in. He watches for a bit. It’s quiet. The house the girl and her relatives go into is nice. Bit weird that they drive around, pick a place, come uninvited and then walk around with the maid on a guided tour like it's an everyday occurrence. It could be worse, Julian supposes. 

He feels his own heavy head getting heavier, Noel’s breathing evening out. His eyes drop shut a couple of times and he loses the plot, but he opens them in time to see the guy, that guy Noel wanted to see.

 _Colin Firth. Darcy_ , his hungover brain reminds him.

_Whatever. Poncy dick._

Julian shrugs his shoulder and Noel grunts. “It’s that guy,” he says, watching Darcy walk toward a pond, his long stride full of intent. The swell of strings fills the room, a counterpoint to the rain tapping the windowpanes outside.

Noel drools a bit on his shoulder and Julian gives up trying to wake him.

On the screen, Darcy reaches the lip of the pond. He sits and tosses his jacket aside. His cravat comes out from around his neck in one quick sweep, the buttons of his waistcoat falling apart next like he’s a professional at getting undressed while brooding.

Julian wants to roll his eyes, but he’s sure they’d fall out of his head if he moved them suddenly. He watches Darcy’s surly expression instead, watches him stand and then dive into the pond.

When he surfaces, his curls are soaked. So’s his shirt. He does have fairly broad shoulders, Julian has to admit, wet linen clinging to his chest and stomach. He’s definitely a surly, grumpy dick, though, trudging through a field of little yellow flowers like they’ve personally insulted him, his family, and his horse, in that order. 

He doesn’t see the appeal, he thinks, feeling himself start to drift off.

The last thing Julian hears before he falls asleep is a shocked “Mr. Darcy!”

*

Julian hears birdsong next, little chirps and peeps and trills, floating into his ears. He coughs, the crisp, fresh country air sharp in his lungs. The air’s filled with something other than tweeting and untouched purity, though. 

Something like the vibrating remnants of strings.

He blinks his eyes open and ignores it.

He’s in a forest, and, initial shock at the clean air over, his first thought is that it smells fucking _amazing_. He can’t remember ever smelling any forest that smelled this good in real life, let alone a forest that smelled so good in a dream. It’s rich, wet, damp, alive, moss and leaves and little individual motes of pollen weaving together into a delectable sylvan soup that he drinks down greedily. 

He breathes deep, holds the air in his lungs, and lets it all come out in a rush. It feels enlightening. He feels wiser, sleeker, _taller_ with every breath. He touches his temple. He feels a lot less hungover, too.

That’s when he realizes he’s not even really in the forest proper. He’s in a little clearing, trees bordering the edges of his dream, a long field full of multicolored wildflowers behind him. 

Julian sprints forward, leaps like a bounding stag, into the foliage ahead.

*

He loses track of the time he explores. There’s so much to look at; there are ferns of every shape and size and variation, and interesting pebbles and rocks and boulders covered in lichen. He climbs one that’s shaped like a buffalo and swings on a branch, then lets himself fall down into a patch of grass dotted with mushrooms.

The mushrooms! They seem to multiply every time he looks away and turns back, little red-capped spotted fellows and some the color of fauns tucked in among the leaves.

There’s a particularly interesting clump ahead of him, near the base of a tall oak tree. There are acorns too, perfectly sized for filling his pockets with and then finding a stream to plop them into. 

Julian steps forward, and his boots sink into a thick carpet of moss. He steps back and then forward again, sinking in deeper this time. Julian leans to press his hand into the moss, marveling at how his fingers nearly disappear into the soft green.

He grins. It would be the perfect place to lie down and have a nap; it looks exactly the right size for him to rest his bones without being cramped up. Then he remembers that he’s already asleep and dreaming, and he’s going to waste a perfectly good magical forest dream by using it to go to sleep?

Not a chance.

Julian stands back and belly flops into the moss. It accepts him like the softest, finest, fleeciest feather bed. He sighs and rubs his cheek against the green stellations.

He’s on his third or fourth bouncy leap when a fine mist of rain starts to fall. He hears it whispering through the leaves at the top of the canopy before it dots the heads of the ferns and falls into his curls. Even that feels good, refreshing, cleansing like it’s the first water falling on earth, crystal clear and unsullied. He turns his face up and lets it fall onto his lashes and lids and lips. 

The moss sucks the rain up, squishing when he taps it with the toe of his boot, and then the rain starts to fall harder, picks up speed until the ferns are dipping their heads and his curls are soaked, clinging to his forehead and dripping into his eyes. It’s not cold, but he’s getting ready to look around for a tree to take shelter under when he feels vibrations through the soles of his boots.

Julian hears the horse’s hooves before he sees it. He swings around in time to spot a well-dressed man on a horse, water streaming off the brim of his top hat. 

As he approaches, the man’s hand comes out and Julian knows what’s expected of him. His fingers flex.

In a split second, his hand meets the man’s. 

His fingers wrap around the man’s wrist. 

He jumps.

He’s weightless.

Then, he’s on the horse, his back pressed flush to the man’s chest, and they’re tearing through the moss and the leaves and the mushrooms at blinding speed. 

Julian shuts his eyes.

_What a fucking dream._

*

They stop in a muddy clearing and the rain trickles back to a mist, rewinding until the forest is full of birdsong again. The horse snorts, and Julian nearly falls off, grabbing at the reins for a moment until the man’s arm clamps neatly around his waist and secures him.

His voice is curt and clipped when he speaks, his displeasure evident.

“A poor seat. I would like to say I am surprised.”

Julian’s head whips round. He’d recognize that dickish voice anywhere. 

Surely, he’s dreaming. 

_You are._

Surely, that’s not- 

_It is._

Fuck him. It is. It’s _Darcy_. 

He sits astride the horse with his spine rod-stiff, reins gripped loose in one hand, as if he was sculpted to rest there like some type of perpetually annoyed, perfectly pressed statue. His lips are set in a stern line. His brow follows it underneath his top hat. 

Even the way the rain drips off of his brim onto his broad shoulders suggests that it’s vexed with Julian due to the mere proximity it has to Darcy.

“You may dismount here,” Darcy deigns to say, indicating the drop to the soaking wet, sloppy ground with an incline of his head. 

Julian looks around. There’s nothing for miles, no shelters, no clearings full of wildflowers, no thickets full of pillowy moss, just more wet trees and rocks and a slick of mud.

Darcy takes his hesitation as an invitation to amend his statement.

“I said, you may dismount here." He clears his throat. "That is, if you are able.”

There’s nothing in his statement that suggests it was made with Julian’s _ability_ in mind. There’s everything in his statement that suggests it was made to prickle at Julian, to ruffle his feathers, to spike annoyance through his blood. 

Julian grits his teeth. 

It was a nice dream, while it lasted. He’ll always have the pleasant parts of the forest to remember when he wakes up: the ferns, the mushrooms, the leaping into the moss. 

There’s a “fuck off” brewing on his lips, but he wants to see that stuck-up twat’s poncy face when he says it an inch away from his nose.

He tries to turn on the saddle, and the horse shies, and Darcy grips his waist tighter this time.

“If you persist on attemping to unseat yourself, sir,” Darcy grunts, “then let me be of assistance.” 

His arm encircles Julian like a vise. There’s finality in his grasp.

Oh, no. No way. No chance in hell, no chance in this mystical forest. No chance Julian’s going to let Darcy get the best of him, not in his dream. 

He’s in Julian’s territory, and he’s going to play by Julian’s rules.

Julian grabs Darcy’s wrist where it squeezes around his waist. He grapples with him, his other hand flying back and knocking Darcy’s top hat off his head. He smirks at the noise of surprise that pops out of Darcy’s mouth, at the noise of crunched finality that comes from Darcy’s horse flattening the hat under a back hoof, entombing it in a squelch of mud.

Between panted breaths, Julian grips a fistful of Darcy’s dampened hair. He manages to get out, “Not so smug when someone disagrees with you, then, are you, mate?” 

Adrenaline floods Julian; he’s not sure where that cocky "are you, mate?" came from, but this is _his_ dream, damn it, and if he wants to get laddy, then he’s going to. 

Julian lets go of Darcy’s hair and grabs at his jacket instead. He closes around Darcy's lapel, and it’s just the grip he needs. Julian heaves and starts to turn himself, his grin wolfish and wide. He knows that if Darcy doesn’t want to go down with him into the muck, he’ll need to steady them. He’ll need to let Julian turn around. 

He’ll need to help him, and Julian wagers that nothing would upset Darcy’s composure more.

Before he can blink, Julian finds himself nose to nose with that smug, well-dressed, less-than-well-coiffed-after-meeting-with-his-grip bastard.

As if someone’s turned on a tap, it starts to pour down rain again. 

Julian is suddenly very aware of himself within his surroundings. If he was awake in real life, this type of rain would cut to the bone, freezing him and making his teeth chatter. As it is, in the dream, he can feel his clothes are heavier where they hang off his shoulders and arms but he's not cold, and his skin doesn't feel wet or uncomfortable. He feels the exact opposite, his chest pressed into Darcy's chest, his harsh breath mingling with Darcy’s in the steaming air. 

Strangely, he feels… 

Oh. Okay. 

He’s got an erection, then.

It must have been the sudden exertion, the struggle causing the head of his cock to strain against his damp trousers. That must be it.

Julian doesn’t question it any further when he feels Darcy’s corresponding erection pressing quite ungentlemanly into his own. 

He eyes Darcy. Darcy eyes him. The rain collects in one of the buttons on Darcy’s waistcoat and eyes the both of them.

It drops from Darcy’s coat onto Julian’s jeans, and suddenly, it’s a struggle of a very different type. 

Julian’s hands are at Darcy’s flies, unbuttoning, and Darcy’s hand is at Julian’s crotch, hovering. He’s down to Darcy’s underclothes before Darcy’s undone the first part of Julian’s belt.

“Not so good at undressing when there’s a zipper to contend with, are you?” Julian mutters. He can feel the mad grin spreading across his face faltering when the folds in the fabric frustrate his search for Darcy’s prick. 

“Not so good at undressing,” Darcy grunts back, wrenching Julian’s belt open. “When faced with a gentleman’s-” he continues, popping Julian’s button and undoing his fly dizzingly fast.

“Finery,” he finishes, Julian’s cock freed as Darcy fishes him out. Julian’s seconds behind Darcy, finding some magic loop in the fabric swaddling his cock, letting him spring loose.

Their eyes meet, and Darcy’s face is smug. It’s so smug, but he’s not smirking, and it annoys Julian so much, he wants to wipe the not-smirk off of Darcy’s smug face.

They go for each other’s lips at the same time, both shuffling forward. Their cocks brush together in their laps as their hands tangle in each other’s dripping wet hair. 

Julian’s shocked that blokes from Darcy’s time kiss with so much tongue. It lessens when the horse starts to move, starts to walk forward, and Darcy lets go of his head to search for the reins where he’s dropped them. Julian doesn’t want to break the kiss - he’s quite enjoying it, to be honest - and even though he hasn’t got a clue on how to steer a horse, he doesn’t want to give Darcy the satisfaction of being in control.

When he looks down, Darcy’s got the reins firmly in hand and the slightest hint of a smirk playing around his wet lips.

Smug, smirking bastard.

Julian raises a brow, and Darcy seems to know what he’s thinking.

Darcy goes for their cocks at the same time as Julian does. There’s no way Julian’s letting him get there first. They tussle, the friction from their movements heated and so good, and Julian’s big fist wraps around them at the same time Darcy’s does, their fingers weaving around each other. 

The horse senses it, senses what’s happening. It doesn’t spook, but it starts to walk briskly into the forest as if to distance itself from the frotting going on between the two men on its back. 

The horse flicks its tail behind them as Darcy flicks the rainwater dripping down his forehead into Julian’s eyes. “I see you have one worthwhile attribute, sir,” he grits out.

Julian cuts his eyes down, watches rain streaking down the heads of their cocks, sluicing over their fingers down into their sleeves as they pump each other.

“Mmm,” he agrees, catching Darcy’s gaze when he looks back up. “Wish I could say the same about you,” he grins, speeding his hand. 

The horse is trotting through a field, now, stopping in its leisurely pace to munch at a patch of grass or nibble a particularly interesting leaf. The scent of lavender underfoot wafts up, flooding Julian’s nostrils. When the horse stops, then starts moving again, it adds an unexpected jolt to their wrists, pleasure coursing up Julian’s spine and down into his balls. 

Julian grits his teeth. He’s close, blindingly so, but he’s not going to come first. He’s not even going to make a noise first. He’s not going to crack. 

He can tell Darcy knows. He can tell Darcy’s trying to do the same. 

He wants to watch and hear Darcy’s stern facade crumble like his hat crumbled under his horse’s hoof, squashed into the mud. 

Julian speeds again. He pumps them until Darcy matches the movement of his wrist, swiping at their slits as the horse moseys past a pine tree and jostles them again.

Julian grins. He’s got the advantage. He’s got both hands free, and Darcy’s gripping the reins with one hand like his life depends on it.

Julian’s fingers come to Darcy’s throat. They linger for a moment and then begin to untie and unloop his cravat. Darcy jerks back, trying to move his neck out of range, and his horse whinnies. He nearly catches himself on a branch, leaves thwacking the side of his head, and Julian allows himself a short, pleased laugh.

“What was that you said about being a poor seat?” Julian says, grinding his dick into their clenched hands. He’s got more of the cravat undone now, it’s nearly there, he’s nearly there-

“Don’t presume to echo-” Darcy begins, and with a yank, the fabric puddles into Julian’s waiting hand.

Darcy’s bare throat is flushed and quivering. 

Oh, _yes_.

Julian feels smugness spread across his face like the sun rolling toward the horizon.

All it takes is a stroke of Julian’s index finger, tracing down the line of Darcy’s Adam’s apple to the dip of his throat, and Darcy lets out a groan that splits the birdsong in the air in two. He bucks into Julian’s fist, up against the underside of his cock, and covers their hands. 

Julian follows shortly after, the sensation too hot and wet and gorgeous to resist. He stays quiet though, content to listen to Darcy’s harsh, panted breaths as he spills over their fingers.

He knows he’s won when he mops them up using Darcy’s cravat afterwards, and Darcy doesn’t sulk, mope, grimace, or protest.

The last thing he hears is Darcy, his voice faint and fading away, lips tickling at the curve of Julian’s ear as he leans forward to tuck him away into his trousers. 

Something about struggles and repression and maybe admiration is the last bit. Julian doesn’t know. 

He’s fast asleep.

*

It’s gone dark outside and it’s still raining, but at least his hangover’s mostly disappeared when he wakes. The blanket he had swaddled himself in is in a heap on the floor, replaced by Noel, and the arm of the sofa’s wet where he’s dumped his tea all down the side and down his thigh, too.

Noel’s breath is hot in his ear, his arm slung over Julian’s stomach, a knee in Julian’s ribs and his other leg loose between Julian’s where they’re spread and dangling over the lip of the sofa. 

He snuffles and squeaks and tugs at Julian’s hair. “Gnnnngh. Crackers,” he whimpers.

Julian wiggles until he can get one of his arms to move; a majority of his body’s still asleep. Not a pleasant, in the forest, jumping into moss asleep, but gone to that awful, needles-and-pins realm of asleep. He flexes his fingers and cups the back of Noel’s head. 

“Hey,” Julian whispers, nudging at Noel’s forehead with his. “Wake up.” He glances at the telly. The people on screen are celebrating. Darcy’s in the back of a carriage with the girl, in all of his finest gentleman’s finery. 

He’s smiling. 

Julian has to admit, it looks quite good on him.

“You’re missing it,” he whispers into the curve of Noel’s ear. “It’s the best part.”

“Watch it later,” Noel slurs, tightening his grip on Julian’s stomach. He shuffles until he’s flush with Julian’s chest, clinging to him like a bear cub. “’S on again tomorrow night.” His hand comes up out of Julian’s hair and points in the opposite direction of the telly and the guide that’s resting on the battered side table. “It said so in there.”

Julian smiles. He gets his arms under Noel’s arse and lifts him. 

“Come on, then. We’ll watch it tomorrow. Bedtime for you now.”

Noel squirms, then settles as Julian carries him down the hall. 

“Is he?” he says, nosing at Julian’s neck.

“Is who?” Julian says. He deposits Noel on his side of the bed and strips off Noel’s jeans, then his own tea-dampened ones. 

“The guy,” Noel mumbles. “Is he?”

“Darcy?” Julian responds. “Is he what?”

Noel yawns, flips onto his stomach, and buries his face in the pillow. Something that sounds like it could be “well fit” leaks out around the stuffing.

Julian slides into the sheets and pulls the duvet up over the both of them. He kisses the back of Noel's warm neck, the choppy bits of hair ticklish against his lips.

“Depends,” Julian says, “on if you’re into that sort of surly, grumpy thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know I definitely don't need to put this quote in, because I know you know it by heart, but, for those readers who don't know: “In vain, I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” 
> 
> Thanks, Darcy, and thanks, Jane Austen. You're a swell guy, and you're a swell lady, respectively.
> 
> Disclaimer: I took liberties with the Wet Darcy episode of P&P95 to make it fit into the Crackmas box of this fic. I don’t think Darcy is a dick in the least; much like all the girls that Noel’s chatted with about the miniseries, I think Firth’s well fit. I just wanted to slash him up with baby Julian, because Terrantalen deserves all the nice things. Also because they’re both tall, broad shouldered, surly and curly, and very, very, very handsome.


End file.
